Chapter Two #7
There were groups of couples talking amongst themselves, but he was clearly watching her. The man’s eyes were wide as Mrs. Dove-Lyon whispered into his ear. The man stiffened as if struck, and turned away, his face pale.
Sibyl wondered if he was unwell.
A young woman in pink came up to her. Something about the young woman struck her as familiar. The woman stepped rather too close for strangers, and said confidently, “Don’t look now, but someone has an admirer.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sibyl asked.
“Oh, don’t be so prim. None of us here are. I am Miss Harvey. You do remember, don’t you? We met before at Mrs. Sprout’s.” Miss Harvey raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, yes, good evening, Miss Harvey.” Sibyl swallowed.
“All my friends call me ‘Kate.’ We are of a similar age, are we not?”
“Yes…” Sibyl didn’t feel comfortable being so familiar with the beauty, but she did not object.
“At that party, you were with your mama, and so no one dared talk to you. Aren’t you the one who hid in the library to get away?” She laughed, an unfriendly note in her voice. “Now, tell me how it is you’ve captured the eye of Phillippe.”
“Who?” Was this some cousin of hers? Unless Miss Harvey meant……
“Phillippe. Don’t you know? The man in red over there. He’s an up-and-coming artist. He’s making waves at the Royal Exhibition.”
“Does he have a surname?”
Kate let out a noise of exasperation. “Of course he does, silly. Phillippe Mercuse.”
“And are you two well acquainted?”
“Ha. No, but we don’t need to be. Everyone just calls him ‘Phillippe.’” She leaned in closer and said, “He’s very particular about his choice of models. He doesn’t just choose anyone to pose for him.”
“I see.”
“Good evening, Miss Clifton, was it?” Another young lady joined them.
She curtsied at Sibyl. “Margaret Watson. I’m not sure we’ve been introduced.
” Before Sibyl could respond, Miss Watson tapped her companion playfully with her fan.
“Kate, what are you saying now? I can tell by your face, you’re up to no good. ”
“Nonsense. Margaret, look. Look there.”
Miss Watson’s eyes widened. “So he is here. Goodness.” She instantly patted her hair.
“You know him?” Sibyl asked.
“Not exactly. I know of him. By reputation,” Miss Watson said in a hushed whisper. “He is an artist, and rumor has it he is very wicked. Positively wild, some say.”
Sibyl glanced at Miss Watson’s smile. “You’re joking. What is an artist doing here?”
“Enjoying himself, I should think. Come, shall we meet him?” Kate said.
“But we haven’t been introduced. We can’t just go up and introduce ourselves,” Sibyl pointed out.
Kate laughed. “Why ever not? Margaret, you agree with me.”
Miss Watson gave Sibyl an easy smile. “Normally, yes, I would rather. But on this occasion, no, I think I’ll side with this young woman’s sense of decorum. Let’s ask someone else for an introduction. Where is the Master of Ceremonies?”
“Over there somewhere. I’ll get him.” Kate walked away.
Miss Watson stood beside Sibyl. “This is only my first time here, but I think this is a place that encourages openness.”
“And brazen behavior?” Sibyl said.
Miss Watson shot her a look. “That is my friend you are talking about, miss. Do not be so hasty with your condemnation.” She turned her head.
Sibyl instantly felt apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”
Miss Watson glanced at her. “I know. I just take issue whenever anyone is ungallant toward my friends. Even if they are a little… forward at times.” She faced Sibyl and extended her hand. “Shake and let’s think no more of it.”
Sibyl accepted, and Miss Watson gave her hand a proper firm shake. “There. Now we are acquainted, and I daresay friends. Now tell me about yourself. And it’s true, the man really is staring at you.”
Sibyl tried not to look. “Is he really an artist?”
“He is. He does portraits, but fantastical ones. Not just your conventional portrait where a man and his family are sat together, posing in a sense of domestic bliss. He does wild portraits, where a man might be fighting a dragon, or the wife might be a wild beauty, like Diana the Huntress, from Greek mythology.”
“I love the Greek myths…”
Thus began a conversation about the Greek gods and goddesses, and both women discussing their favorites and whom they would have wanted to be.
Kate returned with the Master of Ceremonies and said, “Here we are, and… Oh.”
The artist stood before them. “You,” he said, facing Sibyl. “I must know your name.”
Sibyl’s mouth dropped open. “I…”
The Master of Ceremonies said, “Mr. Mercuse, allow me to introduce Miss Sibyl Clifton.”
“Sibyl, ah. I knew a beauty such as you would have such a wonderful name. Enchantée.” Phillippe spoke in French and took her hand to kiss it before she could do much more than blink.
The others stared in surprise. The Master of Ceremonies said, “And this is Miss Kate Harvey, and Miss Margaret Watson.”
The other women curtsied, but Phillippe paid them no mind.
“Ladies, this is Mr. Phillippe Mercuse. An artist.”
“Just ‘Phillippe.’ My friends all call me ‘Phillippe,’” Mr. Mercuse said.
“As you wish. Excuse me.” The Master of Ceremonies bowed and walked away.
Sibyl gently removed her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Phillippe?”
The artist laughed. “Not ‘Mr. Mercuse’ or ‘mister,’ just ‘Phillippe.’ Please. I know we will be good friends.”
“I love art,” Kate said.
“How wonderful. Now tell me, what is a group of lovely, young women doing here? I thought this was a gambling den. Now I find beautiful young women are here too. Are you enjoying yourselves?”
Miss Watson said, “Yes. There is so much to see and amuse.”
Phillippe looked at her. “You. You look familiar. Have we met?”
“Only a moment ago.”
“Hmph.” He sniffed. He glanced at Kate. “You are pretty, but that color pink does not suit you. It is too bright a shade for your skin. You should wear other colors, like aquamarine, or lavender.”
Kate frowned. “I did not ask for your opinion.”
“And yet you have it. Now, did I hear you talking of Greek goddesses?”
Miss Watson politely engaged the young artist in conversation as Sibyl looked on. She was conscious of Phillippe’s eyes on her constantly.
Sibyl was only half-listening, when a familiar male voice said, “I think you are confusing your myths, sir. The Trojan War was a fact, but whether the gods were involved is questionable. Have you read Homer?”
Not in its original Greek, Sibyl thought.
“I have not. And who are you, sir?” Phillippe frowned.
Sibyl looked at Mr. Heyter, who had joined the conversation.
Kate smiled brightly. “Mr. Heyter, there you are. Come join us. We were just chatting about Greek mythology with Phillippe here. You’ve heard of him, of course. He’s an artist. You can see his works at the Royal Exhibition.”
“Good lady, you flatter me,” Phillippe said with a self-deprecating smile and a hand to his chest. “But it is true. You can. I have three, nay, five works at the exhibition, but more I am working on. It is the life of an artist, you see.” He eyed Mr. Heyter’s form.
Sibyl wondered at her new acquaintance. The artist was of an average height for a man and slim, with wavy, dark hair cut bluntly, so it often flopped in his eyes, but in an almost carefree way.
His cravat was fussily tied, to the point where it looked messy, and his reddish overcoat and golden waistcoat were very fine, over his tan breeches and white, silk stockings.
He reminded Sibyl of a robin in winter. But unlike most robins she had seen, he also had the underlying smell of turpentine and paint.
She glanced at the man’s hands. He did indeed have bits of paint on them, and they were stained.
As the artist drew more people to his side, enquiring, Sibyl stepped backwards.
“You have made a new friend, it seems,” Mr. Heyter said.
“Yes. He is a painter.”
“He certainly smells like it.”
“You do not like him,” she said.
He glanced at her. “He reminds me of a peacock. Rather vain, wanting lots of attention.”
The man himself stood before them. “My dear Miss Clifton, I must know. What are you talking about?”
Sibyl smiled at him. He had a foppish air and intrigued her. “We were just talking about your art, sir.”
“Yes. I think we might go to see your works at the Royal Exhibition. What do you say, Miss Clifton?”
“Ooh, a trip to the Royal Exhibition? Yes, please. Let’s all go,” Kate said, joining them. “Margaret, say you’ll come too.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Margaret said, glancing at Sibyl and Mr. Heyter. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense, there is no imposing. We will go. Won’t we, George?” Mr. Heyter said.
“Eh? Oh, rather. Yes, a jolly good idea,” Mr. Percy said, walking up to the group and standing by Kate. “Er, what?”
“Excellent,” Phillippe said. “You will come. Come see my art. I will meet you all there on Tuesday, in the afternoon.”
Sibyl looked at the group and smiled. What an interesting evening this had turned out to be.